The Boy and His Curse

by Michael P Mordenga

  Ethan came charging with his stick, splashing mud and yelling in frustration with a downward strike as his first attack. Mollet blocked it with force, spun around with his wooden stick and parried a low swipe from Ethan. The boy exposed his head and Mollet took advantage. He cracked his stick down on Ethan’s head, leveling him to the muddy ground. The mud is where he stayed. Ethan didn’t want to move even though his rage was pushing him.

  Mollet leaned down close to his defeated opponent. “That move just cleaved your skull in half. You wouldn’t be getting up.” Then Mollet softened a bit. The boy had tried so hard and he was still trying. He deserved a little advice.

  “Listen boy, when fighting, you never go in with all your rage. It’s always wise to let your opponent make the first mistake. If a crawlie comes in with pure hatred and anger, they are bound to be not paying attention; then you can use it to your advantage and overpower them.”

  Ethan was listening, but noticed Mollet was standing really close to him. His legs were spread out and it seemed like his guard was down for the moment. Is this what Mollet meant when he spoke about letting the opponent make the first mistake? Ethan smiled at the thought and let the warrior keep talking. This was perfect. He would just grab his stick and…

  A burst of crushing pain reverberated through Mollet’s body. The boy had thrust the stick straight up, between Mollet’s legs, while he was talking. The warrior curled up into a ball and started to retreat to the mud, all the while hoarsely croaking, “mez.” When his face turned from a flushed white back to the earthy colors, he found the strength to get up. His disdain for Ethan had returned, fueled by leftover ache from the boy’s hit and descended on his opponent. Ethan was still too sore to roll out of the way, but he was deathly afraid now that the mighty warrior was on top of him and they were face-to-face.

  Mollet looked to still be in serious pain, and Ethan couldn’t help but smile. His attack on Mollet gave him the upper hand and it also answered an anatomy question he had wondered about male Phaenix. Mollet pounded the wind out of him, but it had been definitely worth it.

  Suddenly, Caitilin realized Mollet wasn’t playing anymore. She grabbed Mollet’s shoulders and pushed him back with all her might.

  “Stop now, both of you! You both beat on each other. You are going to hurt him. Stop, Mollet!”

  Mollet roared, “The little mez took a cheap shot at me. I will break my vow, Daysun have mercy on me.”

  Ethan shielded the blows. “I was just following your instructions, taking advantage of a weak spot,” he said gasping for air.

  The pounding stopped! Mollet thought about it and he limped away.

  “That little mez is right.”

  “Language!” Caitilin yelled.

  Mollet spun around and cracked the first smile Ethan had ever seen from him.

  “Twiggy learned from me! I didn’t think that was possible!”

  Mollet’s hand shot out, causing Ethan to jump backwards. When he looked, he realized Mollet wasn’t going to strike him again. The warrior’s hand was to help the boy up. Cautiously taking the large hand, Mollet lifted Ethan to his feet. Ethan timidly returned the smile.

  “I guess you didn’t learn that fast,” Mollet said.

  “What?”

  Ethan’s face exploded as Mollet’s fist crashed into it. He was in the mud again.

  *****

  Hinson arrived, lost in his delight of fruit cookies, and tossed a satchel full of leaf bandages. Caitilin was comforting Ethan, and Mollet was rubbing his knuckles. He made his presence known.

  “Can we go now?” Mollet said. “I am growing tree roots tired as we speak.”

  Hinson noticed Mollet had a limp when he walked.

  Caitilin peered over at Hinson. “Did you bring them?”

  Hinson dropped the satchel right next to her and she opened it to find strips of green bandages. They were similar to the bandages used to nurse Ethan’s concussion, but were extended and cut in squares.

  “Sit up.”

  Ethan struggled to position himself when Caitilin began to wrap bandages around his hair. She continued around the face, covering his right eye and moving at an angle to leave a small space for his left eye and mouth to be exposed.

  The bandages were itchy and made Ethan claustrophobic. Caitilin reprimanded him. “This is for your own good. We have to cover up your Earthian facial features so no one will know what you are. The fluffy rag robe will cover your physique and the bandages will cover everything suspicious about your appearance.”

  Hinson looked at Caitilin’s work with approval. “There is nothing showing that would suggest an Earthian. Maybe a severely damaged Phaenix, but not an Earthian. Wear this necklace as well.”

  He put a pendant that looked like a blue shell with a needle through it around Ethan’s neck.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Accessorizing: it’s important.

  “Remember Ethan,” Hinson continued, “you let us do the speaking. An English speaker is very strange in these parts.”

  Ethan hadn’t really questioned it, but the Phaenix could speak his language quite fluently. He pushed his lips through the bandages. “How do you know my language so well?”

  Hinson laughed. “The Readying House teaches all the languages necessary for battle with a race the Phaenix don’t trust. And the Religistral members learn the languages of weaker races they may aid. We know all the Earthian languages and many of our own. The Phaenix brain can understand these languages and pick up on them easily because we have extensive memory capacity. Don’t you know any languages?”

  Ethan thought of the one sentence in Spanish he could remember after taking four years of it in his school. “¿Dónde está el cuarto de baño?”

  Caitilin chimed in, “El cuarto de baño está al lado del árbol.

  “Votre salle de bains est une toilette,” Hinson spoke in French.

  “Vuhkt grulve malki uva nekk,” Mollet said in Wofenese, but Caitilin slapped him because it was mostly dirty.

  Ethan had no idea what the group members were saying, but he enjoyed their banter. It kept his mind off the awful bandages on his face. He noticed he hadn’t been thinking about his home life as much; he had forgotten to miss it for a while. It was as if it had faded away into a distant dream in his mind. What was he to make of that? He’d lost his parents and he barely mourned their leaving. Even when he was stuck in the darkness of his grief, he had been comforted by a light in the wilderness. He wasn’t sure what to think of that.

  “Wir gehen zum Norden morgen,” Hinson spoke in German without even realizing it.

  “Ummmm?” Ethan was confused.

  Hinson corrected himself. “Sorry, those languages all sound the same. I said we are going to the North tomorrow.”

  A dead Kalhari is a happy Phaenix

  A Phaenix grounded is a happy Kalhari

  A cold frothy ale is a happy Elfin

  A worthy blood moon prayer is a happy Wolfian

  An innocent life sacrificed is a happy Darken

  A good philosophy argument is a happy Perkian

  A pickled apple found and only half eaten is a happy Nivite

  - A Reminder from the Book of Races

  XIV: The Perfect Time...Prophetically Speaking

  It was no longer easy to hide; Fragile had paused his campaign. They had rested their furry bodies in the same spot for two nights. The trolls were restless. Anyone who even squeaked out a question as to why Fragile had stopped moving was sent running while he was screaming profanities. No one was safe until the Davik scroll was found.

  Ravenheart stood perfectly still in reverence in Fragile’s tent. “Sir, the new troll is looking into the lost Davik scroll. They will be coming back to us by next afternoon.”

  Fragile paced back and forth, pulling the fur on his hands. Every time one of his underlings caught him doing this he would go on the defensive. Ravenheart was no different. He had just walked in to tell Fragile the water rations needed to
be sorted out for the day.

  “Don’t look at me like that!” Fragile yelled. “We will wait here until it is gotten by the new troll. We don’t leave without it.” Ravenheart was eager to leave the tent, but Fragile’s anxiety was still at peak performance. The troll leader talked to himself in his sleep. “Why did I go to war without knowing?” He would wake up with night sweats and his dark heart would be beating nervously. Then he would remember the one creature in this world for which he had gone to war.

  Kashun and Fragile had stood before the grand throne of Bangor where their obese and aged father, Peligru, sat. His sons and thousands of service workers were at his beck and call, to celebrate the turning of his age and they gave him endless gifts.

  Fragile had smiled before his glorious father, wearing the expensive gold armor and sporting the blood red cape. He opened a scroll before his father with a map of Faeria depicted on it.

  “I have planned to destroy Faeria and claim it for the glorious throne of the Kalhari. This will be my wonderful gift to you.”

  Peligru smiled, letting food dribble from his mouth.

  Kashun’s gift to invent a curse that even the high priest couldn’t stop was immediately overshadowed by his prideful brother’s boast.

  The younger troll tugged violently on his brother’s cape. “Fat brother, we had agreed to give father a gift of equal proportions. Your offering doesn’t fit mine.”

  Fragile smugly beat his chest. “What can I say? I am the brother who gives out of his blessing. You give out of your blessing as well, but it’s obvious that you are not as blessed with as generous talent as I am.”

  This sent Kashun storming through the many winding corridors of the manor. His brother had outdone him for the last time. He was going to find a way to make Fragile’s life a nightmare. He found the means within the prophetic rooms of the dark temple.

  A prophet by the name of Davik had spoken a prophecy not yet deciphered by the monks of the temple. It spoke of winged people and balancing wars. It was perfect. Was it real? Did it pertain to Fragile? It didn’t matter, as long as it made Fragile’s life a tragic reality. From then on, Kashun never stopped bringing it up at meetings.

  “Kashun!” Fragile screamed in the East Forest as he got up from his nightly tossing and turning.

  He went outside in the dead of night to see the same sycamore trees, dirt paths, and willows that had been their backdrop for three days. His expansive army was resting in the same boring place.

  Fragile gritted his teeth and stroked his beard nervously. “The new troll better get that scroll soon.”

  At that moment a scraggly troll with large tufts of fur removed from his leathery hide came into the tent. He had one lazy yellow eye that made him the object of a lot jokes. Bentaur was his name.

  “Sir, the Cragglin is ready for operation.”

  Fragile shifted his mind to this new morsel of information. The Cragglin was ready. He walked with Bentaur over to a larger tent that had smoke spilling from the top.

  Inside the tent, right in the middle of the ground, stood a large steel construction. It looked like a giant pawn piece from a chess set. It was a cold metallic silver, with rotating discs that were mounted around its huge body. They made clicking sounds as they rotated. The discs were connected to a needle that was like the stinger of a giant bee.

  Fragile stared with his mouth a gap. This was not just a piece of fancy metal with impressive spinning discs. This was a Cragglin. It was the idea of his chief engineers. These were the trolls that made it their responsibility to create tools of destruction and obliteration. They had succeeded.

  The Cragglin was a project that had been brought up early in the campaign to sack Faeria. Fragile had told his engineers to think of a machine that would be used to cripple his enemies if they were to get a slight advantage in battle. He did not want some simple machine that would cause death on the battlefield, but desired a tool that would cause extinction to all creatures. The Cragglin was just that idea.

  Fragile rubbed his claw on the dark metallic metal, looking at his distorted reflection. He then looked at Bentaur for further instructions.

  This was Bentaur’s time to shine. “It’s the Cragglin. A fully automatic, dark artistry powered system of gears. It will be carried on the battlefield when we reach the Drift Space.”

  Fragile knew that much. He just wanted to hear about the beautiful destruction it created.

  Bentaur continued, “Once activated the tiny gears will push a huge needle into the soil of Faeria. The needle will pump six keg loads of Poiseidon into the earth. The Poiseidon will be carried by the groundwater systems and branch out in a one thousand acre radius.”

  Fragile also knew that much. That is exactly what he asked his engineers to make. He wanted to hear the end game. What happens when the Poiseidon infects the soil?

  Bentaur could see some spittle dripping from Fragile. He carried on. “The Poiseidon will render Faeria ground infertile for over a thousand years, making crops and sproutling children unable to be created. Nothing of Phaenix descent will grow.”

  That was it! That was the most powerful part of the explanation. A massive machine will be implemented making all plant life in Faeria infertile.

  “So no Phaenix will be able to plant their population into the ground?”

  Bentaur nodded pridefully.

  “And no Phaenix will ever be born again?”

  He nodded again. “Even if we lose the battle, you will still have won due to making reproduction impossible. All you need to do is plant the Cragglin into the Drift Space where both sides of land connect.”

  Fragile looked at the behemoth machine one more time. He worshipped its power and darkness. Surely this would be the final dagger in the heart of Faeria.

  *****

  The glorious world of flora and fauna faded away and gave way to a world of stone. Ethan stepped through the silver gates where the grass was overtaken by the cobblestones and mortar of the North. There were buildings of mortar, tents of fabric, and Phaenix everywhere. The Phaenix, young and old, rich and poor, were eager to buy from one of the many tents holding meat, vegetables, or decorative gold for their root houses. The golden limestones covering the ground radiated a yellow glow. Phaenix swarmed around the cobblestones, looking to get their hands on precious items under the hot sun, from sycamore prayer necklaces to designer hog bags.

  Ethan took in the view. Faeria had a commerce side to it. He had thought they were all forestry people, hunting and gathering. This was as close to New York City as Faeria was going to get. He followed Hinson deep into the crowd. All kinds of Phaenix swarmed the market. Most of them had variations of red or blonde hair, but the combinations were endless. Some Phaenix were tall and stood like a proud mountain, while other Phaenix were short and chubby, playing with a passel of children. Some of the maidens were charming, golden haired princesses with a smile that could power the sun, while others were stout and motherly. They all had something in common when they noticed the Phaenix in bandages—pity. Ethan was mangled to them: when they saw his unbandaged eye they cringed. None realized they were looking at an Earthian, they assumed he was a survivor of the East invasion. The Phaenix pitied him for becoming disfigured in the fires. His wounds were so bad he almost looked like an Earthian.

  A blonde-haired Phaenix dressed in armor with the physique of a tall furnace tapped on Mollet’s shoulder.

  “We will be fighting in the Drift Space soon,” he said in a gruff voice.

  Caitilin made a U-turn to the tall Phaenix. He was a beefy attractive male, but she had other business. “Excuse me; Mollet has made a vow of silence until he has finished escorting us to our mission.”

  The Phaenix with the gruff voice raised his eyebrow at Mollet and wanted to laugh. “Does she speak the truth? Does Mollet give up his words for helping the religious order?”

  Mollet was hot with embarrassment, but he nodded anyway. No creature in the universe who knew his name would imagine him pl
aying nanny to religious Phaenix.

  The furnace Phaenix left, but not before he shuddered upon seeing the wrecked Phaenix in bandages.

  They waded further into the crowd, passing merchants selling feather boas and holy trinkets. Phaenix chatter swirled throughout the marketplace. To Ethan it sounded light and sugary like cupcakes talking. There was a whole gaggle of people standing around something, creating a huge wall before Hinson. An old Phaenix with tan skin grabbed onto Hinson’s cloak.

  “Holy man! Thank the Daysun you are here,” he said desperately.

  He pulled Hinson deeper into the crowd, leaving the others behind. The crowd thinned near a huge expanse and Hinson could see what they were looking at. A wounded Phaenix lay the ground with an arrow in his side. He was struggling for life, oozing blood over the cobblestone, disrupting the marketplace. Hinson was brought to the struggling man’s side.

  “Holy man! Give this poor warrior the Rite of Entrance.”

  This man was ready to die. Hinson instinctively knelt down. His deacon training came over him like a flood. Looking into the Phaenix’s struggling eyes, he took the wounded man’s hand.

  “Rest my faithful. Rest in peace. The Daysun will take you into his gates. You have been faithful and now it is time to leave this world. Do not fight the Daysun’s hand lifting you up; it is time.” Hinson said in a voice so calm it could put an insomnafrog to sleep.

  The struggling warrior started to give up his fight for his life. Looking over to Hinson with desperate eyes, he whispered, “I failed her.”

  He fell to the ground and the crowd mourned the passing of a spy. The city erupted with mourning.

  The wide open square divided into narrow alleys. A row of houses lined up. They were made of stone. Lining each alley crouched two rows of beige boxes looking very different than a root or tree house did. They were enormous cubes of luxury, decorated in imported furs and furnishings. Caitilin explained that they were walking through the Sprawl, which housed every lawmaking Phaenix. Hinson muttered under his breath that they were all older than Faeria itself, causing Mollet to snicker.